


Riptide

by Necronon



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 3
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Physical Abuse, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-28 22:02:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8464651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Necronon/pseuds/Necronon
Summary: He's close to the surface. But there are hands on his ankles. They won't let him go.





	

Jason's no Sherlock, but he knows Vaas. And for a dead man, he's been pretty busy. Jason's just missed him by a few hours this time, he's certain. There could be a thousand outposts flying his colors instead of just the remaining handful, and he’d be able to tell. And like before, it’s the cigar that gives him away. Colombian, with a flashy, golden band. He’s seen them scattered around; thinks at first someone pilfered his stash after the news of his death broke, but Jason recognizes the craftsmanship of the meticulously-cut caps. Has watched him from afar before--perched on a crate, cutter in hand, inspecting the day’s catch. Which to ransom, sell, or both. There's rarely more than an inch consumed, all prematurely snuffed because he only smokes when he’s deliberating, and it never takes him long to decide.

Jason’s scavenging around a recently extinguished fire, the coals still warm beneath an extended hand, when he spots it by a stack of crates. He thinks as he comes upon the severed head of the boar, tongue drooling out and cigar wedged between its slack lips, that the fucker is definitely still alive. Thinks, as he examines the fresh cut and absence of flies, that somehow Vaas has worked out that he is too. That maybe he’s underestimated Vaas and that he's been playing his cards close and with more finesse and patience than Jason would have ever given him credit for.

Hoyt dead. The Rakyat crippled and still reeling from Citra’s death. If Vaas is alive, the world is his oyster.

He’d tried to explain just that, in fewer words, to Liza. That he had to stay, take care of loose ends, take responsibility. Wasn’t she always telling him that? Take responsibility? If he’d just handed all of Rook over to Vaas, he couldn’t just let him rebuild. Let it all happen again.

Liza had bought it, maybe. Riley had been on the fence, and Keith? Keith either hadn’t cared or had already known what Jason had yet to realize. Why they had to watch Jason shrink on the shore, knowing that he was pissing away a precious chance.

When in reality, if he’d left with them, all he would have done was look back.

Like he’s looking now.

 

________________

 

No more than two days later, the dry season peters out and the sky falls. Monsoons drown the islands, and Jason thinks that if he hasn’t hated them before, he does now. Bridges are washed away, grassy flatlands are turned into mires, and the air sits on his shoulders like an anchor--clogs his lungs, corrodes his gear. The rain is endless and days go by like weeks. The jungle explodes. Everything plumps and unfurls, turns green and loud. The cloying odor of fresh growth and perpetual wet lies over everything like a blanket. Giant invertebrates creep across the jungle floor, pushed from their dwellings in search of higher ground, and disappear into the muck and scrub. Colorful amphibians perch on herbaceous nests of rich green like jewels, jumping and scurrying when he gets too close. Rook has been transformed: the vegetation and her inhabitants. Even Jason, his hair fallen flat and wild against his face, eclectic ensemble of pants and shirts dulled by the sun, and poorly shaven because a decent razor is about as common as a cool breeze. Feels gipped, because where's his Wilson? His rifle doesn't answer him, of course. They're on and off friends.

The following morning a shrieking faun caught in brackish quicksand cautions him against a deceptive clearing as Jason slogs through boot-sucking mud and thick growth, hacking down sharp fronds whose razor-like edges make easy work of exposed skin. He feels like he’s always looking over his shoulder. He can’t hear the animals like he use to. Between the roaring rain and the trill of locusts, he has to be doubly cautious about what stalks him. Has to watch his footing and the weather, more often than not forced to throw in the towel when it worsens. Everything has slowed to a crawl, and despite evidence, he feels no closer to finding his target. Thinks maybe the cigars were a red herring after all, and he’s been wasting his time.

Until later that evening, just after dusk, a peppering of lights over the calm surface of an inlet of sea catches his attention as he’s clambering his way through the treeline. There’s been a break in the weather, and he’s out later than he should be, trying to make some headway before the rain washes everything away again. Already he can hear the rumble in the distance, see invisible clouds pulse violet as heat lightening skips across the sky, and knows his luck won’t hold for long.

He’s pulled his feet through miles of unforgiving jungle to get where’s he’s at. His calves are burning from the exertion, and he’s grateful as the soggy ground gives way to packed sand a little closer to shore. There’s still a good ways of beach between where he camps in the brush and the edge of the water. Carefully, he slides his rifle from his shoulder and tugs off his shirt so that it can be rolled and braced beneath the muzzle.

He listens.

A rustling of wings and, more distantly, a deep bellow. Jason is alone, except for the night creatures. There’s no one to see the wink of his scope as he uncovers it and pans across the water. The view is a flat black, occasionally streaked with silver from the moon. Until blue-green bursts of light, same as he’d seen earlier, illuminate the shallows of the lagoon. Bio-luminescent plankton, the source of their disturbance a dark silhouette, a man, bent at the waist and scrubbing his arms and face. Almost indiscernible, were it not for the familiar stripe of black hair, and Jason feels as sick as he does thrilled. Finally, he’s found him. Like he knew he would, alive and--

_...fishing?_

A safe distance from the rising tide is a rusted pole, its grip lodged in the sand with the line retracted and undressed, likely because of the red tide. By it, other miscellaneous dark shapes. Boots, maybe. Some tackle. Jason has never seen the man so complacent, and there’s something scandalous about watching him, unbeknownst. Watching him in a private moment, alone, in that fleeting place between the violence and coke, between the slaving and slaughter, like Jason’s caught the man on the knife’s edge just before he tips over into another extreme.

Fucking _fishing._

He lines up the shot. Compensates for thirty meters. Feels almost aroused as he gently loads a shell into the chamber, stock against his shoulder, and _breathes_. Toys with the notion of putting a round into the back of his skull, dropping him right there in the water. Imagines the little blips of soft light as brain matter sprays across the shivering surface. Wonders if he’ll be able to see the blood with his naked eye. If seeing the flaccid body certain with death will unchain him.

Something on the shore chirps.

Jason keeps his reticule on Vaas as he straightens and looks over his shoulder, rubbing water from his eyes and wiping at his nose. Watches as he wades back to shore and snatches something from what looks like a rumpled shirt and holds it to his mouth. He says something, but it’s too low and Jason’s too far to pick out any of the words. Then, radio still in hand, abruptly spins on his heels to face the dense jungle in which Jason is taking cover and says, just loud enough for Jason to hear, “No kidding, ‘uh!?”

Jason isn’t sure it has anything to do with him, but he immediately flattens and lays his rifle over, covering the glossy barrel and scope with an abortive jerk of his hand.

“...see shit.” Vaas again, but he can only hear bits and pieces. “...swear you... be fucking with me.”

It goes quiet for a while.

Then he hears, “Jason!”

_You’ve got to be kidding me._

Then again, his voice relieved of some of its excited falsetto: “Jason! C’mon, _hermano_ , I know it’s you!” Jason doesn’t have to see Vaas to know he’s wearing a shit-eating grin. He can hear it in his voice.

Then, when Jason still doesn’t give himself up, he hears the tell-tale metallic clap of a magazine just before the air cracks with the sound of gunfire as Vaas fires three consecutive shots in Jason’s general direction--like he not only knows it’s Jason, but he’s got a pretty good idea _where_ he is, too. All three miss, of course, but as Jason starts to reach for his rifle, a mysterious fourth shot splinters the trunk of a palm several feet away. Jason finally jumps up, because that’s fucking close enough and someone really does know _exactly_ where he is.

“Stop! _Jesus_ _,_ just _\--_ stop shooting!”

Vaas holds out his arms and shouts back. “There he is! Now get _the fuck_ down here, Jason, or maybe next time _Bert_ ”--he drawls the name for emphasis--“doesn’t miss.”

Jason doesn’t know Bert very well. Only that he’s in a nest somewhere and also has a rifle, and that Jason very much likes his head where it is. So, fine, he’ll play along. When Jason is close enough that they no longer have to shout, he learns a little more.

“ _Beeert._ Fuckin’ guy’s Vietnamese, and he goes by ‘Bert.’ I swear Jason, that’s”--Jason sees the green indicator on Vaas’ radio flash and knows the party on the other end is tuned in, because Vaas is a little shit--“is the worst hillbilly, white-boy name I’ve ever heard.” Vaas holds his ear to the speaker theatrically. “No? Nothin’ to say to that, _Bertie_? Okay. But ‘Jason?’” Vaas hooks his radio back on his belt and saunters towards Jason, all cheerful conversation. “That’s the perfect name for you. It’s like that movie. You. With your machete. Choppin’ shit up. People, I mean. It’s fucking poetry.”

Vaas is still waving his pistol around, so Jason speaks carefully: “You had me tailed?”

“I did.” That’s when Vaas snaps and marches right up to him. Gets in his face, grabs the back of his head, and puts the nose of his pistol into the soft tissue under Jason’s jaw. “You been busy, Jason. Real fucking busy. What do you think you’re doing, ‘uh? I seen that little _pinche_ shack you holed up in.”

Between the full moon and Vaas’ uncomfortably close proximity, Jason can easily see his blown pupils. He’s fucking high, and that means Jason’s really on thin ice. When he doesn’t answer quickly enough, the gun bruises.

“ANSWER ME, Jason.”

“I... decided to stay,” he says lamely, because _I’ve come to finish you off_ sounds too much like a bullet.

“Y’know, I fucking picked up on that. Why are you following me?”

Jason doesn’t have time to answer.

“Not why--I know fucking why. But what’s the bullshit excuse, ‘cause I know you got one.” Vaas looks ready to unleash. Jason is expecting the worst when he suddenly softens and smiles. “Oh, man, Jason. You fucked up, ‘uh? I mean, seriously, what were you on anyways? You were fucking”--Vaas points to his own temple and waggles his finger--“crazy. But that’s poetry too, Jason. Tried to fucking kill you three motherfucking times, and HERE WE ARE.” Vaas moves the gun to Jason’s temple and bumps their foreheads together. “I mean, it makes sense. You came after me, off your fucking face, so of course you fucked up. But me? Is there a fucking Jason factory out there? Like, I don’t know, assembling you fuzzy motherfuckers? Because.... I don’t know, Jason. I don’t know.”

It’s like watching a train wreck. Jason can’t look away when Vaas finally withdraws and starts pacing circles around him, arms busy at his sides like he’s trying to calculate impossible sums.

“You know, Jason, I’ve been wondering. Who jumps blind, huh? I mean, if you think about it, if maybe you would have said, _oh, no, that’s a fucking stupid idea,_ then maybe your _shit-for-brains brother_ would still be alive. I mean, WHO does that? Then your brother left one of my boys cold on the floor, and wasn’t fucking PAYING ATTENTION, in _my_ fucking jungle. So, I shot him. He had it comin’, _hermano_. Fucking white boys, way up there on your pedestal, like nothing could touch you. Y’know, when you really think about it, you basically got him kill--”

Vaas flounders backwards as Jason lands a solid shot to his jaw. He stops, looks over at Jason, and then launches himself, all manic energy, at Jason’s middle, and Jason feels like a truck’s just run him over. Vaas is _heavy._ Jason holds his ground, scrapping and rolling and biting and kicking, takes as many blows as he lands, but eventually succumbs, already weary from his trek through the jungle, and Vaas puts him face-down into the sand and wrenches one of Jason’s arms behind him for good measure. Jason can see sandy bare feet on either side of his head as Vaas fucking sits on him, the bottoms of his pants rolled up and soaked through, and digs his heels in. He follows Jason’s line of sight, threatens to put a foot in his face, _look out Jason!_ then cackles when Jason jerks his head away in disgust.

“Okay, Jason. Now that you’ve almost broken my FUCKING NOSE.” A little pressure on his arm, and a lot of pain. “Seriously. Tell me why you’re here. Like, I want to fucking hear you say it--

“No-no-no-no, never mind, no more bullshit. I will tell you Jason. Are you listening?” Vaas leans close, right next to his ear. “Jungle fever. You, Jason? You are a junkie.”

Vaas is doing something behind him. Has set his pistol down a few feet from them to fish something out of his pocket, and Jason thinks, that’s it. If he's quick, Vaas’ lookout doesn’t even matter. If he can just _shut him up._

Jason feels something fall onto his back, small, then hears the dull click of a lighter. Vaas is quiet. After a few seconds, he smells tobacco. Hears Vaas exhale and sag against him a little. If he cranes his head, Jason can just see him out of the corner of his right eye, sitting on another human being and leisurely smoking one of those fucking cigars, like its the easiest thing in world--the most normal. He’s perched atop his ass and staring at Jason’s back inquisitively, which makes Jason mourn the shirt he left by his rifle.

His rifle. Machete. All of his Vaas-be-gone's.

Vaas’ eyes flick to his lit cigar, pinched between the fingers of the hand that isn’t wrenching one of Jason’s arms behind his back, then to Jason. Back to the cigar. Then back to Jason as he dons the most malevolent, wide, self-satisfied smirk Jason has even seen, eyes brilliant with ingenuity, and Jason is mildly alarmed because he never enjoys Vaas’ ideas.

“Jason,” he says seriously. “I’m going to give you a little something.”

No. _No-no-no--_

“Like, uh, return the favor, no?”

“I swear to God, Vaas, if you--”

“Hold still, motherfucker.”

Jason tries to buck Vaas off, tries to make use of his one free arm, but the captive one is given an adjustment that makes his joint explode with pain. All the while Vaas is speculating, examining the relatively unmarred stretch of white canvas that is Jason Brody’s back.

“Riiiiiight. Here.” Jason can only see the dark shape of Vaas’ head as he crouches over him, slowly and precise like it’s fucking surgery, and proceeds to press the smoldering end of his cigar into the flesh of his shoulder.

Jason tries to say something like _fuck you_ , but it comes out garbled as he digs his forehead into the ground and bites down so hard it feels like his teeth might shatter. It’s not like worse hasn’t happened to him. It’s just that it’s Vaas, and Vaas always has to lead into everything, make it worse or humiliating or both, and Jason hates him for that. Hates that everything is a fucking game.

The cigar is an electric snap of pain that bleeds into deep, red-hot hurt. Vaas just holds it there, letting it _cook._ Jason tenses and stays that way until every joint in his body screams--until Vaas finally pulls the cigar away and pitches it, stinking, into the sand several feet adjacent and leans closer to examine his work.

“It’s like a sun, with a little mole moon. Or satellite, _boop-boop-boop!_ ” Jason feels a blossom of pain as Vaas fingers the burn. “So you can think of me, y’know? _Helloooo, Jason!_ when you look in the mirror.”

Jason spits sand and tries to turn his head again, but his neck is really starting to hurt. “You--” _are fucking crazy, psycho--_ “put a fucking _cigar_ out on me! You _fuck_.”

“Oh, I’m sorry Jason. Would you rather--” Vaas’ weight disappears as Jason is suddenly turned over onto his back, arms pinned over his head. “--I try to BURY A FUCKING KNIFE in your chest?” Vaas’ breath reeks of tobacco and something sour, and Jason wants desperately to wipe at the spittle that lands on his nose and mouth. “Huh? Is that what you fucking want? Look. LOOK AT ME.” Jason thinks Vaas is about to bite his nose off, wouldn’t put it past him, but Vaas relaxes. Or appears to. Jason knows better. “No-no-no, it’s okay, I’m gonna chill.”

Jason wishes _he_ could chill. It’s not like worse hasn’t happened to him, he thinks again, but Vaas won’t stop wriggling around between his legs, because, _personal space, what’s that?_ and talking, talking, talking so close to his ear, and his body’s mistaking his anxiety and excitement for, well, _excitement_ , and--

It’s just a small noise. A strangled, frustrated huff; but Vaas, for the first time in ever, actually shuts up and just looks. Looks at him with this poker-face that Jason hates because he can’t tell if he’s been found out, or if Vaas is just catching his breath or what.

But of course he knows.

Vaas lifts his hips just enough to look down between them, and Jason has to turn his head so his mohawk doesn’t go up his nose.

“Jason!” Vaas says, a clipped bark of surprise edging on admonishment, then looks back up. His forehead is creased, eyebrows a mile high. “You been carrying a torch for me? Or is it the yelling? The beach? It’s a fucking nice night, I mean, pretty fucking romantic, Jason.”

That shit-eating grin again. Jason’s fingers curl into tight fists. “Fuck you.”

Vaas bobs his head and snickers. Casually lies back down against him. "That’s what it looks like, _hermano.”_

Jason opens his mouth, but Vaas shushes him like he’s a kid, _shhhh_ , and pecks him on the cheek--quick, chaste, insulting. Then he goes quiet, and Jason goes stiff. Well, the rest of him anyways, because he can see the gears turning in the other man’s head. Right before Vaas experimentally grinds his hips down, and the heat that Jason is so carefully trying to keep corralled erupts. Right out of the gates, because he'd been growing increasingly detached up until this point, and somewhere in the fire Vaas has rekindled, right next to all the tumultuous rage, is something else. A tenuous silver-blue core of something unfurling into his chest and extremities that feels like home.

Vaas is watching him closely and smiles when Jason makes an ugly, constipated face--because better that than the groan lodged in his throat. He wishes he had his shirt on, or Vaas did, because the other man’s skin is tacky and a little too warm.

When Jason refuses to talk, or make any other audible response, Vaas says, “It’s okay, Jason. It’s probably been a while, huh?” Another leisurely roll of his hips, and Jason’s not the only one anymore. Vaas’ half-hard dick is right up against his hip. No shame. “So I’m gonna be nice. Gonna make you feel goooood,” he drawls in his ear, “white boy.”

It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it.

_Can’t kill him, can’t fight him forever, so fuck him. Knock the sadistic bastard down a peg--see if he still calls you Snow White on his hands and knees._

But he’s thought about a lot of things he doesn’t _actually plan_ to do. Perfectly innocent (vengeful) and hypothetical (sometimes wet) daydreams. Wasn’t Vaas saying something about Jason being fucked up before he ever jumped out of the plane? Something about--

Insistent tugging at his belt brings him back down to earth. Vaas has shimmied down his body and popped open his fly, all the while keeping an eye on Jason like Jason might flip out, because it makes sense--he probably should stop him, probably shouldn’t let Vaas, who’s hair-trigger crazy and might also be a cannibal, near his delicates; but when Vaas presses the most vulgar, open-mouthed kiss to where the head of his dick is caught in his jeans and staining the denim dark, all he can do is watch. Vaas holds his gaze while he does it, and it makes Jason's mouth go dry. There’s a sort of dull thrumming between his ears and a pricking excitement at the tail of his spine. His body’s warmed the sand beneath him so that the burn on his back feels raw again, worse with the grit digging in, and he welcomes it all because he’s been on Rook a while, where the past is the past and the future doesn’t mean shit, only the now, and the now is _he’s about to get blown_ \--never mind that it’s Vaas, or maybe because it’s Vaas, but he could really use it, and--

The radio still hooked on Vaas’ belt burps and sputters. Vaas ignores it until it says, _“Boss?”_

“You’ve got to be kidding me. This _motherfucker is still--_ ” Vaas tears it from his belt. “WHAT!?”

The longest moment of Jason's life, before: _“Should I--”_

“Yes--you’re relieved. _Leave. GO!_ ” Vaas looks at Jason and jabs a finger at the transceiver. “Have to fucking tell them everything. _Yes_ , you may take a piss _. No_ , do not shoot Jason. He thought you were going to shoot me. Funny, ‘uh? I mean, I didn’t think you’d fucking hump my leg, but whatever, that’s okay. I’m a little excited too. I was really going to miss you, Sno--”

Vaas shields his face just in time. Jason’s fist catches him in his forearm instead of his mouth where his lip’s already been split, and just as fast as Jason sat up and took a swing, Vaas is spitting fire and slamming him back into the packed sand, backhanding him hard enough to snap his head to the side and leave his cheek numb.

Vaas dings his fingers into his jaw, holds them face-to-face, and points. “You need to calm down, _chico_. I get that you’re still processing shit, but I swear, Jason.” Vaas lowers his finger just enough to slide it down his cheek and neck. “I will fucking hurt you.”

Vaas isn’t holding his arms anymore, but they’re too close for Jason to glean any meaningful momentum. Not enough to do more than piss Vaas off, and with Vaas’ advantage in terms of sheer strength, Jason decides to wait for a window. Oh, and he’s still pitching a fucking tent. The notion that he’s been seen like this, with Vaas, has doused his flames a little, but Vaas is back in his lap and patting him on the cheek--a mockery of the harsh slap he’d administered earlier--and cooing in his ear like they’re old lovers: “You know, I thought maybe you really did leave. And you know what I felt? Like, you think I’d be relieved or some shit, right? Spoils of your playing fucking hero at my feet, all to myself. Nice day, clear skys. NO--FUCK... you Jason. Okay?” There’s a humid chuckle in Jason’s ear as Vaas slots them back together again and gets a thigh between his legs. “Then I realized: you do it for me. And when you stayed? I fucking knew, Jason. I knew. Just thinking about you out there, skulking the fuck around, hating me as much as you fucking--” Vaas rolls their hips together, licks into his ear. “-- _need me._ ”

_It was enough before to get shit-faced in some club, jump out of a plane--but then you came here, killed some motherfuckers, drank my sister’s jungle juice. You’re so, so fucked, Jason._

It hits a little too close to home. The sudden hollow he’d felt after he’d supposedly finished Vaas off. Like a junkie opening up his stash to find, oops, there’s nothing left. No more _alive_ , just tepid existence. Sinking, falling, until--

_You hit the ground._

Jason doesn’t remember moving them, but his hands are just above Vaas’ hips now, fingers hooked possessively into the flesh of his back like he'll fall through the ground if he lets go. He feels Vaas lick across his teeth and realizes he’s clenching them. Relaxes, let’s Vaas lick in and suck and bite at his swollen lips as his mind eases into a pleasant fugue. Listens to the wet slide of their mouths, almost wants to laugh when Vaas is particularly noisy, but is too aroused to do anything but hum into his mouth and paw at his waist. He sweeps a hand between Vaas' legs and palms him through his pants. It's a little weird, but there's something about knowing that Vaas is that hard and worked up _for him_ that really does it. Something about the filthy things he says into his neck and how Vaas bites when Jason squeezes just a little too hard, then follows up the sharp sting of his teeth with a swipe of his tongue. Everything from Jason's jaw down to his collar feels wet or tender, red from the scrubbing of Vaas' stubble, by the time Vaas decides that rutting against each other's thighs has lost its magic. He lets out an anticipatory puff of air as the other man pops off his neck with an eloquent _fuck_ and scoots back down to where Jason really wants him, because he does now. His toes curl in their boots. His face feels hot. All his blood has dropped down, and he thinks, stream of conscious, _Yeah, suck my dick, Vaas._ Realizes he’s said it aloud when Vaas quirks a scarred brow and peers up at him. Jason thinks he looks like a (pissed) tiger with his pupils blown wide like that, and also thinks that’s pretty appropriate, because he’s about to get mauled.

But Vaas only says, “Dirty talk, Jason, really?” then finally, _finally_ , tugs him out of his pants and swallows him right down.

Jason immediately lets go of the fistfuls of sand he’s grabbed and reaches for Vaas’ head, shoulders, little granules tumbling through his hair. He’s still nervous about having the man so close to his tender bits--but, mostly, really eager to help him out with it too. The hasty buzz-cut feels good against his palms, broken by the long scar racing from temple to scalp, and the center stripe of hair is just long enough for Jason to card his fingers into it and _pull_ _._ To his surprise, Vaas lets him--so he hazards a little more pressure and is rewarded a low rumble that feels exactly right around Jason’s dick, and he wants more of _that.  
_

By all rights, Vaas’ mouth shouldn’t feel this good. Vaas is a piece of shit, and everything about him stacks up the same way. But the way he just _goes for it_ , lets Jason right into his throat and buries his nose into the dark brown nest of hair that leaps up, straight-as-an-arrow, to his navel where he tugs, almost affectionately, at a few tufts. It throws Jason a little, how good he is.

Then Jason wonders exactly how busy Vaas’ bed is, and if he’s even clean, and a host of other legitimate things, but that’s about all he does is wonder. Vaas is doing a pretty good job keeping him game, not letting him think too much about the consequences of what’s going down. Doesn’t even complain when Jason starts to lift his hips and pull at his head, doesn’t even pull off (maybe because Jason forgets to warn him) when he tips over and starts to come. Vaas just takes it all down his throat, milks him through the aftershocks, and sits up with a wet smirk when Jason finally inhales and sags, finished. Defeated, at least for the moment.

He’s pleasantly buzzed, savoring his afterglow, when he hears Vaas shuffling around, feels him crouch over him. Jason ignores him, wants Vaas to just not exist for a while as he reclines in the cool night air and listens to the jungle.

Then Vaas says, “Look at me, _motherfucker,_ ” and Jason does, reflexively, because Vaas is fucking interrupting, and that’s when he sees Vaas, jerking off. Jason has time to snarl and look repulsed before Vaas groans, long and deep, and comes on Jason’s chest.

“Oh, man,” Vaas says with a breathy laugh, “I got your mouth too. Fuck, you look good, Snow White. Snow. _White--_ ”

Jason can already hear his laughter before it starts. Vaas collapses back on the sand, cackling and gasping for breath, covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Jason has already risen to his feet and shambled over to the edge of the water, desperate to wash his face before anything _gets in his mouth._ It’s all for naught when Vaas collides with him and knocks him over into the surf--wrestles him down and clambers on top before Jason can finish rinsing or even get decent. A few agitated plankton in the shallows flash angrily at them, lighting Jason’s peripherals. The moon is perched behind Vaas’ head, a big yellow disc like he’s some kind of deity, making it so that Jason can’t distinguish his features or read his expression.

“Don’t you ever fucking forget, Jason,” Vaas murmurs, hoarse and severe. “You want to be free? You want to fucking flyyyy. Up there”--The silhouettes of Vaas’ arms gesture, but Jason isn’t sure to where--“in here?”

Vaas doesn’t finish his thought. Just leans in and kisses him for a while. Jason doesn’t reciprocate but doesn’t stop him either. Vaas doesn’t seem to care. He eventually gets bored, gets up, and wades out of the water, leaving a comet tail of little lights. Leaving Jason sitting quietly. Gathers his things, barking something over the radio like nothing’s happened, and heads back into his jungle.

Then Jason thinks he gets it. Why, even when Hoyt was demanding his _head,_ Vaas' efforts were lukewarm at best. Just biding. Because as soon as Vaas is gone again, he's hurtling back. Crashing.

Jason shoves his face into his hands and howls through his fingers. He doesn't recognize his own voice.

 


End file.
